Theme IV: Quiet, “Pure Quiet”

By Nikolas Reda-Castelao

I have never encountered anything quite so terrifying as the magnanimous beauty of being

I find goliath structures molecular in

The thought of our miracle.

Our miracle is the thought

that I am but the synaptic blip of a continuum,

forever moving forward and

forever erasing

what was and will be.

My steps are motions through matter,

my matter begetting matter in expiration,

and expiring matters accumulating

and then matter, as matter of fact,

eloping into energy and

energy dispersing along the cosmic waves.

These waves disperse along the dissonant echo of a conflagration

that came from a hyper-condensed blip

that is this moment

in perpetuity

amongst every other.

i am in the midst of a great white noise;

i am the pixel of an amazing static,

this roaring

schizophrenic

incessant

maddening

indescribable

droning

of the quotidian chore of being.

But,

at one point,

there was silence,

pure quiet,

a moment of silence

before this moment,

and his

and hers

and theirs

and its, of

walking down a street listening to the anguish of

jackhammer dirges and

gas emission stuttering and

libido brain shouting and

pitter patter chatter clattering

like our battered matter

in armed conflicts

turning bodies to energy.

Each step i take is the expressed heave forward

of our universe dying

of energy freezing

of matter being stretched

into a matted ennui

Whenever did we

Ask to be the groveling gravel

grappling and gargling

God in a grotto

In a secluded part of the ocean,

of the cosmic waves

Taking you over,

you can hear the ocean

you can hear it in your ears

you can fear for your dears

Gargling and grappling

For God, forgotten in a grotto

Under a the limitless of sky of cosmic waves

you can hear the wind carrying you to oblivion.

It sounds like

your brave heart beating

Childhood memory fleeting

Crazed sex bleating

3 Time a Day eating

Days bleeding

God creating

Misery beating

your love letters and

your hang-ups and

your triumphs and

your traumas and

your dirges and

your bebop days and

your prayers and

that Jackhammer drone

that gossamer gossip

that sex brain bleeding

those books feeding

Noise.

To be in the universe is to be in a moment, a miracle, of absolute and utter noise. It is

beautiful to know we have known something other than

Pure Quiet.

When i walk down the street

i close my eyes to meet

this quicksilver illusion

of A moment of silence

and everything is an Intrusion.

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